Sandcastle

The air smelled of sunscreen and beer. Cecily was nestled into a folding plastic chair dug deep into the sand while Rachel stretched out next to her on a beach towel. A few feet away, Monica packed sand into plastic pails and frowned as her final results came out flat and limp.

“Mama?” 

“What’s up monkey?” Cecily answered, looking up from her book. She fiddled with the bookmark.

“My sandcastles suck.” She threw her tools down in frustration and twisted to peer at her mother. Cecily marked her spot and rose from the chair, securing her beer in the cupholder. She crouched near Monica and observed the sulking piles of sand around her.

“Well, what do you think is going wrong here?” She asked, reaching for the stray tools. Monica frowned, digging her small fingers into the sand.

“I don’t know!”

Rachel had propped herself up onto her elbows and was watching the pair. She smirked as Cecily banged a plastic bucket and shovel together, creating an arrhythmic song. Monica smiled from underneath her oversized hat as she watched Cecily wiggle to the beat, and Rachel recalled the day they bought it while on vacation in New Jersey.

“Don’t you think it’s too big?” Rachel asked Cecily. They watched as Monica danced between clothing racks in a gift shop right off the boardwalk, the sunhat bouncing from side to side. Crowds of spring breakers bustled past the entrance, smelling of alcohol and funnel cake.

“She’ll grow into it,” Cecily had claimed, keeping her eyes on Monica. Rachel pulled Cecily in and planted a kiss. 

“If she doesn’t, we’ll just have to put it on your big head.”

Cecily slapped Rachel’s arm in response and they had laughed, gazing at each other as if they were the only two who existed on the boardwalk.

Now, she watched Monica fiddle with the hat, tracking Cecily’s movements. Cecily had lowered her voice so that all Rachel could hear was a mumble over the waves, but it was obvious that she was walking Monica through how to pack a bucket correctly. She guided Monica through scooping, and after every two additions, would reach her own hand in and punch the sand down. Monica would occasionally pause and peer into the bucket.

“This is taking forever,” Monica complained loudly.

Rachel spoke up. “Rome wasn’t built in a day!” Cecily looked at her and smiled.

“What’s Rome, Mommy?” Monica replied.

Rachel and Cecily both laughed, Cecily covering her mouth in an effort to not upset Monica. “Keep scooping, monkey,” she instructed. “We’ll tell you all about Rome some other day.”

Eventually the bucket was filled. Monica slapped the top with her hands as Cecily watched. Then, they grabbed the bucket and flipped, creating a perfect cylindrical tower with square bricks on the top. Monica gleamed. “We did it!”

Cecily leaned back to observe their handiwork. “We did!” She reached over, flipping back the brim of Monica’s hat, and kissed her forehead. She paused. “Wait here, I want to go get the camera.”

She stood up and walked over to her chair, pulling on her sundress. “I’m going to run to the car,” she told Rachel. “I’ll be back.”

Rachel sat up. “That’s a long walk.”

Cecily was already striding through the heated sand, flip-flops in hand. “I know!” she called. “I’ll be fast.”

Monica stood up. Her Cinderella bathing suit was covered in sand, along with her arms and legs. It was time to put on more sunscreen. “Why don’t you go rinse off in the water?” Rachel suggested. “I need to put more sunscreen on you but you’re covered in dirt!”

“It’s sand, Mommy,” Monica retorted. 

“Okay Miss Sandy, go rinse off please.”

Monica mumbled something about her name not being Sandy, but she turned away and strode towards the water. They had taken her to a swim class the minute she was able to sit up on her own, so her swimming abilities had never been brought into question. Rachel scanned the beach towel for the sunscreen. She found it underneath Cecily’s chair, propped up next to her book.

Her curiosity piqued and she flipped the book open to where the bookmark had been left. There were pencil marks littering the page, underlining interesting words and dialogue. Not knowing the context of the story, she found the writing enticing and continued reading, taking in her wife’s notes as she went along. She was pulled from her thoughts as she heard Cecily return, camera hung around her neck. She grabbed the beer from her chair and took a sip.

“Where’s Monica?”

“I told her to go rinse off so I could put more sunscreen on.” She didn’t look up.

“Rachel,” Cecily’s voice trembled. “I don’t see her.”

Rachel closed the book and looked towards the ocean. Cecily had already begun to run towards the shore, crushing their sandcastle underneath her feet. Her sundress fluttered in a cloud of silk behind her as she began to yell for Monica. Rachel felt her body seize with shock.

“Monica!”

Cecily’s screams were bloodcurdling. She had run straight into the ocean with the camera around her neck, pushing against the waves. “Monica!”

The lifeguard took notice and stood up on his perch, grabbing a pair of binoculars. Cecily began to paddle the water with her hands, turning frantically in circles. She continued to scream as the lifeguard ran into the water. Rachel watched in slow-motion.

She couldn’t hear what was exchanged, but Cecily was frantically explaining Monica’s swimsuit and hat to the lifeguard. “She has black hair and brown eyes,” she cried. “She’s such a good swimmer.” 

The lifeguard dove into the water, leaving a soaked Cecily to weep, waist-deep in the ocean. The camera was submerged and the water had begun to creep up her dress, clinging to every curve and crevice. 

Both Rachel and Monica watched in horror as the lifeguard dipped beneath the waves and came back up for air. Every time he emerged without Monica, Cecily wailed. 

Finally, the red uniform was accompanied by a small, tan body, dressed in a pink one-piece, Cinderella’s blue dress cascading across her stomach. Her head lolled back in the lifeguard’s arms as he thrust through the waves. Cecily lunged towards them, clinging to his side as they reached shore, her cries growing louder. 

“Monica baby, I’m here,” she sobbed.

Rachel found herself unable to stand. An enormous weight had encased her, pushing down on her chest, rendering her breathless. She watched from hundreds of feet away as the lifeguard laid her daughter’s limp body on the sand and began CPR. Cecily kneeled nearby, speaking encouraging words to the unresponsive Monica.

Nearby families stopped their activities and were watching in silence. One mother pulled out her phone and dialed 911.

The waves continued to crash and the seagulls continued to cry. The entire world seemed to continue moving as Rachel could not. She felt chained to the ground, helpless to both her unconscious daughter and distraught wife.

Even as the sirens approached and uniformed men came running through the sand, Rachel was bound. She was bound as the lifeguard stepped away from Monica’s body, and as the paramedics took Monica’s vitals and bowed their heads. 

She was restrained, helpless, as Cecily screamed in pain, holding their daughter’s dead body.

Cecily rummaged through her purse for her keys. She heard the familiar jingle and pulled them out, hitting the unlock button on the fob. She saw tail lights flash in the distance and started in that direction.

Another late night in the office, she had ignored any incoming calls and texts. Safely inside her car, she pulled her phone from her purse and scrolled through the notifications.

A voicemail.

Deep down, she hoped Rachel had called, asking her what she wanted to eat for dinner. Those calls stopped months ago. Instead, she discovered an unknown number. She hit play and held the phone to her ear. A cheery voice came through the other end, welcoming all of the parents to their child’s first day of Kindergarten. The lights on the dashboard told Cecily that today was August 22nd. 

She let the phone fall into her lap with the voicemail still running. The voice mumbled into her thigh. She reclined her chair and fell back with a thump, tired eyes gazing into the blank ceiling. Raindrops struck the windows, welcoming her tears.

The voicemail ended and Cecily laid there motionless for what felt like hours before the moon told her it was time to go home.

Cecily typically came in through the garage each night, but tonight she came through the front door. It felt foreign to use a key instead of the easy push of her fob. Inside, she removed her wet coat and shoes, and proceeded towards the kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a figure in the dark, motionless. She pivoted towards the dining room, reaching for the light switch.

"Don't."

"Why?"

Rachel leaned forward in her chair. The table seemed like a vast sea between them. The extra chairs had been pushed to the walls, and what was left was just two chairs at each end. She reached down, ruffling through a bag, and then slammed a glass object on the table. 

Cecily flinched. "What is that? What the hell is going on?" She asked. 

She strained her eyes through the low light that was filtering in from the entryway. She wanted to walk away, to scream, to leave, but this was the first time Rachel had acknowledged her since.

"It's Monica's ashes," Rachel answered. "I had them reanimated. Now, when we open the lid, we can talk to her spirit."

Cecily drew her arms up around her shoulders, as if she could still feel Monica's sleeping head lulled against her chest. Her mind flashed back to the lifeless body in her arms instead.

"This is unhealthy," Cecily said. "Seriously, no."

Rachel’s face came into focus. The bags around her eyes had grown deeper and her hair had slicked over with grease. She had worn the same band shirt and flannel pajama pants for the past three days. Cecily wondered if she had left the house looking like that with Monica’s ashes, but pushed the thought aside. Through the second archway, crumpled pillows and blankets covered the couch. Dirty dishes and takeaway containers littered the coffee table.

"Don't you want to talk to her?"

"Of course I do!" Cecily roared.

Rachel shook back against her chair. Their glistening eyes gazed at each other through the darkness.

"I just thought—"

“She’s dead, Rachel.”

“I know that.”

Silence entered the room. The grandfather clock in the hallway called through the house, announcing it was midnight. Cecily flipped the light on and went into the kitchen, emptying the contents of her lunchbox into the sink. “Have you eaten?” She asked. “I can make you something.”

“You blame me.”

Cecily turned around. Rachel had moved from the table to the archway and now leaned against the wall. Her exhausted eyes bore into Cecily.

Cecily asked the question she already knew the answer to. “Blame you for what?” 

“You blame me for Monica’s death.”

Cecily scoffed and began to move towards the bedroom. She listened as Rachel’s footsteps followed her through the hallway. 

“I really can’t do this right now,” Cecily sighed. She tried to think of her agenda for the following day. The shadow followed her to the master bathroom, to the closet, and back out to the kitchen where Cecily poured herself a glass of water.

“Just say it,” Rachel whispered.

“No, I won’t.”

“Just say it!”

Cecily threw the glass of water against the wall with such rage that it shattered and sent shards cascading across the tiled floor. Droplets began to run down the wallpaper and pool onto the floor. “Yes!” Cecily screamed, her voice hoarse. “I blame you! I blame you! I blame you! All you had to do was watch her and you couldn’t even do that! She drowned!” Her chest heaved.

“Maybe if you hadn’t been teaching her to build a damn sandcastle she wouldn’t have had to rinse off in the first place.”

“Is this really how we’re gonna do this? Just throw blame at the other person? I told you I didn’t want to do this right now.”

“Well, maybe if the undertow—”

They were interrupted by a rattling from the dining room. They both rushed towards the sound, watching in horror as the urn shook and stirred, and collapsed onto its side, ashes spilling out across the freshly cleaned glass. A voice cut through the air like a rusted knife.

"Mommies?"

Cecily crashed to the floor. She began to wail. Rachel rushed forward, burying her hands in the ash. 

“I just want her back,” Rachel whispered. “I just want my baby back.”

Outside, the rain fell harder.